Most Loving Mere Folly, Then Heigh Ho

I am writing this now instead of actually writing something that I should be writing. My short story for Creative Writing. A task that has tonight (what's left of it), and tomorrow night. But! Tomorrow night I have a test to study for in AP US History, which is comprised of 95 vocabulary terms. Something which I did not look at over the weekend. And probably should have. So here I am, now. Screwed over so much by my own incompetent time management. And after I finish my story, and test I have colleges to apply to, hopefully I'll make it into one of the colleges i apply to, I should have applied two or three months ago, again. My fault. I really want this post to not be about how stupid, awful, boring, lame, angsty I am. Just writing about it will not help. At all.

I just read what I wrote last night for my story and it's pretty crappy. It's really crappy. How could I have let myself write such filth? I will not delete it, for I should edit it tomorrow night or after it's due, before I am required to stow it in my Creative Writing portfolio. That's what's truly important.

20 minutes later- Facebook checked, re-checked, and used. Status of story? Same as it was 20 minutes ago.

And with that...

Just Wasting Time or Angst am Kopf

So here I be, in Ziggi's, with Carly. A friend brand new. I am trying to work on poetry, my song, and organizing everything in preparation for college, and my creative writing portfolio due at the end of the semester, in about two weeks now. Stressful times, and yet here I am, just "chilling" as it were.

Well that was the night previous, and now it is day. I woke up an hour ago, 12. Noon. On a sunday. I am eating Chinese food. Ha. So healthy. I am also watching Seinfeld. I am wasting so much time, and now I am starting to freak out. I don't know why. Probably because finals are soon, and I have a cornucopia of tests to do, and projects to finish and show to direct. A job at which I am failing most heartily. Great I'm in that sort of mood. GAH ANGST. I need help some days, like we all do. We're all human. Why is being human so awful? Why is being a teenager the worst thing to be when you're a teenager? ANGST.

Whew. I have a lot on the mind today, at least I think I do. I think I'm suppressing feelings, or something along those lines. I don't know. I know what I am talking about. And I guess I don't really care if you do.

This blog is so unfocused, I just keep on going. And there really is no actual thought driving this blog. I wish I could just focus on something today. I know I don't have ADD or ADHD, I just have problems starting work, and finishing work. Maybe I should go for a freezing walk, or do some breathing exercises. I don't know. I just don't know anything today angst. I was angst going to angst study angst history angst vocab, it's a test with 95 angst words, angst that I have to fill angst out.

Oh yeah, my short story. I have to finish that so I have a rough draft. Ha. Tomorrow. I am so screwed. Today I am failure. It's okay, because Sundays are usually my worst days. Always.

Okay, I had better end this angst ridden, stupid rant.

And as always, if you have any questions about anything, I guess I'll try to answer them with the utmost honesty.

Short Story Beginning

Working Title

The two walked outside the bustling restaurant:

“Why didn’t you talk?”

“What?”

“You barely said a word in any conversation.”

He paused.

“I didn’t have much to say.”

“You never have much to say!”

“It’s the truth!”

Several people around the couple suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“I would rather sit silently than have people think…”

“That’s your problem!” She pointed at him.

“What?”

“‘What people think,’ you care what they think!”

“How could I not?”

To this, she had no reply.

They were staring into each others eyes with a degree of malice not normally associated with couples. The evening (disastrous) had gone as he had predicted. He loathes her friends, just one point of precarious conflict. Their eyes locked; nostrils flared. Each breath (visible) wafted and combined, bound until dispersion.

He was and still is a writer. She was (to him) and still is (to him) nothing. Of course he is a writer, how ostentatious and over done is that? O reader! I agree, but let my comments not keep you from reading further. But, before this fable can truly begin we should all be “on the same page,” should we not? Their love was fraudulent. Listen:

“I think I love you,” she said.

He shrugged, and automatically said, “I love you too.”

“…Do you mean that?”

“I… yeah, wh-why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh! I just love you so much!” she exclaimed with eyes watering.

Their ages at that time? Twenty years old, o the joys of youth. If this were not jumbled enough, back to the post-dinner “entertainment.”

She paused. And pondered. Steam was billowing from the rooftop; its sultry, shapeless vapor lazed about the iridescent sky. She gazed into the windows, looked at the laughing parties of two, of four and drew a breath:

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“What?” She was vexed.

“’I want that’.”

She frowned.

“Do you really want that?”

He spat.

“Don’t do that,” she glanced about. “We’re not barbarians.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m leaving, and if you’re not going come with me, I think you can stay here with your friends.”

“Don’t you dare leave witho-….”

“Goodnight.”

He walked, with brisk pace, back to his car which was a rather nice looking, luxury sedan.

I formatted it this way on purpose. Tell me what you think, please. But be nice.